


this was a home once

by cecropia



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Ghost Connor Murphy (Dear Evan Hansen), Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, No Dialogue, One Shot, overdose tw, passive voice, pls don't read the tags past this point if u don't wanna be spoiled, stay safe, upped the rating for suicide descriptions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:27:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25208440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cecropia/pseuds/cecropia
Summary: Connor hasn't been home in six and a half years.
Relationships: Connor Murphy & Cynthia Murphy, Connor Murphy & Larry Murphy (Dear Evan Hansen), Connor Murphy & Zoe Murphy
Comments: 10
Kudos: 47





	this was a home once

**Author's Note:**

> HI EVERYONE!!!!!  
> i wrote this all in one night and no one's beta'd it or anything so pls be patient with me  
> title is inspired by the song this was a home once by bad suns   
> WARNING: THIS IS VERY HEAVY AND IT DEALS WITH HEAVY TOPICS. please stay safe.  
> reach out to me if you'd like: c-e-c-r-o-p-i-a on tumblr (i'm okay guys pls don't worry)

Connor hasn’t been home in six and a half years. 

Two-thousand three-hundred fifteen days, to be exact. He knows because sometime during his senior year, he marked the date on some stupid countdown app. Something to look forward to. The day he’d stop being Connor _Murphy_ , the day he’d finally just be a nobody again. Just _Connor_ . Just _that one kid that went to our high school. You know? The crazy one?_

So he did it. He finally did it. He just… up and left. He didn’t tell anyone, not that anyone would care anyway. He just left. 

He should’ve packed heavier. 

Two-thousand. Three-hundred. And fifteen days. 

So... a little _under_ six and a half, then. 

Connor’s lived in so many places that he can’t even count them anymore. He used to keep track, keep all the names and places in a tidy list in his head. Eventually though, names and dates and places and couches and park benches all bled together like ink from one of those cheap pens you get for free at his dad’s work. He stopped remembering, because he stopped caring, because he was too tired to care anymore. 

So much that he doesn’t even remember the time he used to care. 

He remembers a friend of a friend— or more accurately, a dealer of some guy Connor saw a couple of times in the convenience store— who let Connor come back to his house with him. And even though the guy didn’t speak to him much, Connor supposed that wasn’t too bad of a place to stay. 

Plus, Connor had free-ish access to every stimulant and depressant that’s ever existed under the sun. 

Not that he ever used. He should’ve, at least when he had access to it. 

He knows he lived in a lady named Savonne’s house for a little bit. That was probably the best place he’d stayed during his little couch-hopping journey. As long as he didn’t make much noise, he could stay in the little attic bedroom her granddaughter used to sleep in. It seemed like a fair trade. Sometimes they’d just sit on the couches in her living room together while she told stories. Most of the time though, they just simply enjoyed each other’s company. 

Sometimes she’d even leave a plate of dinner on the counter for him after he’d been sulking in the attic all day instead of being decent and socializing. Connor didn’t deserve that. 

He didn’t deserve her. No one did. 

God, he misses that woman. 

Sometimes he’d stay outside all night, listening to the singing bugs that used to keep him up at night as a kid and wondering how he got there, to that point in his life. How he ended up sitting on the curb of a Walmart at four in the morning. 

He wishes he could have a cigarette. 

One thing he hasn’t done in all six and a half years is gone back. He never thought he’d be able to. Not that he doesn’t remember every exit to take to get there, every pothole no one bothered to fill in on the street he grew up on; not that he’s forgotten the code to the garage or where the Murphys keep their spare key. 

Connor used to use it a lot in the early hours of the morning, after all. 

But he hasn’t gone back. He’s kept a strong will, telling himself that he doesn’t need them and that they probably don’t want him back anyway. 

Which is why he’s so taken aback when he ends up on the Murphy’s doorstep one night, gazing up at the absolute headache of a buzzing porch light and wondering when he looked at it last. He wonders how flies even end up inside the light fixture in the first place. 

And he remembers when he used to count the dead flies in the yellowing ceiling lights of his dingy high school just to stay awake. 

Would it be weird to just… walk in? 

Maybe Connor’s really just as crazy as everyone’s always said he was. 

The key isn’t where they used to keep it anymore. Maybe they finally hired someone to clean the gutters. Maybe old Larry got sick of having to reach so high every time he forgot his house key because he was too worried about his job to care about any of his other commitments. 

Maybe Connor should knock. 

Knocking would probably be best. He knows Cynthia likes to keep a kitchen knife tucked right underneath her side of the bed, even though she’d never actually use it. It makes her feel safe. 

And even though she’d never use it, Connor’s not so sure about Larry. So he’ll knock. 

He’s insane. He’s actually batshit. Even if his family recognized him as Connor and not an intruder with murderous intentions, they’d probably still fucking kill him for leaving without saying anything. 

But still, he feels like he should at least give them a warning this time. So he knocks, two loud raps on the old door. 

Nothing. 

Again. The same as before, two knocks in quick succession that seem to echo off the trees. 

Connor’s always been a bit heavy-handed, but he’s sure he didn’t knock hard enough to jostle the door open. But there it is, unlatching at his last knock and shaking a bit as it creaks open. No lock, no deadbolt. 

Come to think of it, he’s pretty sure he didn’t see Cynthia’s SUV parked out front, either. 

The first thing that hits him is the smell. It used to smell like steamed cauliflower and rice, or Zoe’s stupid pop star perfume, or something else that made his nose scrunch up in disgust. 

It doesn’t smell like anything anymore. 

And when he finally takes a step inside, cringing as he realizes he’s forgotten about that one squeaky floorboard three from the doorstep, he sees that it doesn’t just smell like nothing. 

There’s just… nothing he recognizes, really. 

The old appliances are still there, but it looks like they’ve installed a new countertop. Connor wonders if Zoe helped glue it all together, writing her stupid name in cursive with wood glue as she and their father kneeled under the sink. Cynthia probably baked them something afterward for doing so much work around the house. 

He glances to his right. The walls have been painted over where he and Zoe would track their heights, always competing. She would stand on her tiptoes and Cynthia would mark Zoe’s actual height for herself in the lightest press of graphite, a dark, bold line an inch above it just for show. Connor remembers there was a time when he used to let Zoe cheat at things. When he would play along. 

And as he makes his way through the living room, his memory gets fuzzier. He doesn’t remember the couch being there. And they’ve never had a piano, because Larry tried to force them to take lessons once and they both teamed up and fake-cried about it until he finally caved. 

Well— Cynthia caved. And Larry used to be determined to fix anything that was broken, or wrong, or unhappy, and so he did too. 

They stopped going to lessons before the Murphys even had a chance to get a piano, though. 

Or… that’s what Connor remembers, at least. 

Upstairs. Connor’s room. He’s excited to see what they’ve turned it into. Maybe a new office space, or maybe Zoe finally moved into it after years of bitching about it to mom. She was probably happy she could finally live there in peace. 

Connor’s taken the steps two at a time since that one growth spurt that skyrocketed him above his classmates, the one his dad was proud of until Connor started getting made fun of for it. But it makes him faster at getting up the steps, and Cynthia always laughs and yells at him about it for some unknown reason, so it’s worth it. 

He kind of misses it as he reaches the top of the steps, an absence of warm eyes on his back from below. 

Now it’s just darkness. 

To be honest, Connor didn’t really expect his room to be turned into a home gym. In fact, he expected anything _but_ that. Zoe’s never been one for fitness, what with both of their insanely fast metabolisms that made their mother jealous even though she tried to hide it. But Cynthia prefers to ‘exercise’ with her wine friends at Zumba or whatever the hell old rich ladies are doing now. And Larry hasn’t got a second in the day where he’s not working or thinking about work or emailing. 

Maybe he quit his job. 

He _had_ to have quit his job, because none of this makes sense. 

Zoe’s started playing piano again. That’s it. That’s gotta be it. 

And Cynthia probably just forgot about their homemade growth tracker. She probably didn’t even realize when she hired someone to paint over it. She probably hasn’t even thought about it. 

And Larry moved the spare key so it’d be easier to reach. So it was less obvious of a hiding spot. So they could finally hire someone to clean the gutters. 

And Larry must’ve finally let Cynthia park in for once instead of making her park in the grass so he could go to work in the mornings. Maybe he’s working nights now. 

Probably. That’s probably it. 

All of a sudden, Connor’s starting to feel a bit woozy. 

This was the last house Cynthia would ever buy, as Connor heard a million times whenever she’d threaten to move to an apartment alone in her countless one-sided arguments with Larry. So they _have_ to be here. They couldn’t have just left. 

Unless she finally moved to that apartment. 

Good for her. 

Back to the living room it is. Connor needs to sit down. 

The new couch is nicer. It’s cushier. The fireplace looks like it hasn’t been used in eons, but Connor remembers a time when they’d come in from snowball fights with freezing fingers and Zoe would be crying because Connor _actually played the game_ how it was meant to be played, and Larry would sit them both in front of the fire and distract them with stories from his childhood he pretended were true just to entertain the two of them. Cynthia would bring them hot chocolate. Connor would sharpen the candy canes into little points with his tongue instead of melting them in the cocoa. 

He’d always leave the wrappers on the mantle. It drove Cynthia insane. 

The mantle. 

Above it, there’s a photo. 

Even though he tries to see it, he tries so hard to see some kind of resemblance, that’s not Cynthia. And that’s _definitely_ not Larry. And Zoe’s allergic to dogs, and he’s never seen these fucking people or that stupid dog in his life and he’s going to be _sick_. 

Like, right now. 

He stumbles out onto the Murphy porch again, dropping to the stupid squeaky floorboards and curling in on himself. He clutches at his stomach. 

He’s choking. 

He’s choking, and he can’t breathe, and he can’t breathe because he’s choking on vomit. It tastes sharp and acidic, chalky capsules dissolving right on his tongue and leaving his mouth sour. He can’t spit them out, he’s _choking_ on them and it won’t fucking end. It _won’t fucking end_. 

Connor thought he could make it end. 

Police are knocking at his door. Cynthia answers. Her face drops and then she does too, the sound of her cries muffled like cotton in Connor’s ears. Zoe’s rushing up behind her, a hand on her back, frantically looking between the two officers for some sort of answer that they don’t want to give more than once. 

The three of them are at the dinner table. Larry’s eyes are blank. Cynthia is angry, a constant stream of tears flowing from familiar eyes. Zoe storms up to her room without a word exchanged between them. 

Cynthia flips through a photo album. She guilts Larry into sitting next to her. Connor watches him break down for the first time in eighteen years.

Zoe’s taken out of class by a school psychologist. She looks the poor lady in the eyes with her own, with Connor’s, with Cynthia’s and Larry’s, and tells her to go fuck herself. 

Larry stays late at the office. He locks his door earlier than he’s supposed to. The janitors are confused, but they don’t ask questions. Even when he sends stacks of documents flying off his desk, when he grips at what’s left of his hair like Connor’s learned to do, even when he sinks to the floor and stays there shaking until his cell phone finally rings. 

Cynthia screams. Her skin is red underneath streaks of melting foundation, mascara pooling in the bags under her eyes that Connor’s inherited. She throws herself into home improvement, flitting between one project to the next to fill that emptiness Connor left behind. 

  
  
  
  
  


Zoe leans against a brick wall, stark white. Her makeup-free face is in contrast to the way she’s dressed, black jeans and a sweater to match, hair styled to hide her face in, her one pair of acceptable formal shoes on the ground next to her. She crosses her arms tight, hugs herself. And then she cries. 

She cries like nobody’s watching her. 

Like Connor isn’t right there next to her. 

Cynthia coaxes her inside. Zoe doesn’t put up much of a fight. Neither does Connor as he follows them in. 

Larry sits at the front. Cynthia and Zoe sit next to him, and Cynthia holds Zoe’s limp hand. Their grandma pats her on the knee, and their snooty aunt whispers something reassuring in her ear from the row behind them. Connor knows that Zoe knows that practically everyone in the room is staring at her by the way she straightens her posture, pretending not to notice. 

She’s a sight for sore eyes. She hasn’t been to school in weeks. 

Connor’s chest aches, hollow with the wish for a beating heart, when the well-spoken pastor up front gets his birthday wrong. His family doesn’t say a thing. 

  
  
  
  
  


Connor’s gasping on his front porch. 

He hasn’t been home in two-thousand three-hundred fifteen days. 

He wishes he could be. 


End file.
